


Just Desserts

by thehousewedestroyed



Series: The Rubbish Bin Behind the House We Destroyed Along The Way [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chocolate, Domestic Fluff, Hand Feeding, M/M, Remus Lupin Lives, Sirius Black Lives, Sleepy Cuddles, Threesome - M/M/M, Wine, underage UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 10:31:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10695183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehousewedestroyed/pseuds/thehousewedestroyed
Summary: It ends up here, with Remus’ fingers at his lips and the sweet taste of chocolate nothing compared to the taste of skin as his tongue touches his fingertips.Is this it?Harry thinks. He sees the same question in Sirius’ eyes.Is this it?





	Just Desserts

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in an alternate timeline of the "[The Real Relationship Was The House We Destroyed Along The Way](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661424)" series: sort of a _What If? (Sirius and Remus stayed together)_ scenario.

If Harry is honest with himself (and he'd rather not be; he would rather say it started later), he would admit that it began that summer. And it ends up here, with Remus’ fingers at his lips and the sweet taste of chocolate nothing compared to the taste of skin as his tongue touches his fingertips.

Out of the corner of his half-closed eyes he can see Sirius shifting, staring at them, wide-eyed. He makes a sound in the back of his throat close to a strangled whine, like a dog with a treat inches in front of it’s nose, being told to stay.

_Is this it?_ Harry thinks. He sees the same question in Sirius’ eyes. _Is this it?_

Harry lets his eyes flutter closed properly, takes the chocolate from Remus’ fingers with his lips—and before Remus can move his hand away (not that he seems in any rush to), he pulls the tips of his fingers into his mouth, tongue curling around them, sucking gently.

_Is this it?_

Remus does not pull away. He does take his fingers from Harry’s mouth, but waits only a few moments for Harry to swallow the little square of chocolate before he pushes them inside again, other hand coming up to stroke Harry’s cheek with his thumb. Harry moans, hears Sirius pull in a breath, shift closer.

_This is it,_ he thinks. _Finally._

*

To say it started that summer is maybe not quite right. Nothing had happened, after all. Harry had been fifteen, turning sixteen—it’s obviously good nothing happened then. But if he were to count _this_ by all the times things didn’t happen, he would be discounting a thousand looks, a hundred small touches, and more than a couple of teasing words which just barely skirted the boundaries of _something_.

So maybe that summer was more like the base upon which everything else was constructed. Which is apt, probably, since that was also the summer that Sirius had vanished a load-bearing wall and nearly sent Grimmauld Place collapsing in on itself.

Those holidays possibly should not have been as good as they were. It had felt surreal, as though to everyone else the world was crashing down as Voldemort’s return became common knowledge; while to Harry a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Everyone knew he had been telling the truth, it was no longer his sole weight to bear, and Sirius had been more or less immediately exonerated. Harry had only had to return home to the Dursleys for eight days that year, before his godfather had turned up and whisked him away to Grimmauld Place on the back of his motorcycle, leaving deep, satisfying tire tracks in the perfectly manicured front lawn of Privet Drive.

That ride was one of the best of Harry’s life, his arms wrapped around Sirius’ waist, the mild wind whipping his hair, their laughter vibrating through both their bodies over the hum of the engine. It had taken a bit over an hour to ride from Surrey to Islington, and in that hour Harry experienced his first revelation of the holidays: that Sirius was the person to whom he compared all others.

To a degree, he already knew that. He knew he looked to Sirius for guidance, always. He knew he trusted Sirius above everyone else. But, while it probably should have been, this wasn't the direction that Harry's thoughts were going. He was thinking that Sirius—with his large eyes, his sharp cheekbones, his toothy grin, and his long, dark, perfectly disheveled hair—was the most beautiful person in the world. And there was no one else quite like him.

The second revelation came a week or so after that. Remus was still living at Grimmauld Place and his company had come as a welcome surprise to Harry, whose heart had leapt when he first saw Remus waiting for them at the door. Remus had extended his hand to Harry to shake, but seemed to change his mind at the last moment, pulling him instead into a tight hug that filled Harry's senses with the smell of freshly laundered knitwear. Days later, Harry had found himself sitting up with Remus late at night talking about something that Harry doesn't remember now, and possibly didn't really remember at the time, too distracted by the way Remus' lips moved as he shaped the words, and the steady, pleasing rhythm of his voice. This was when he realised that the pleasurable way his stomach flipped whenever he saw Remus was more than plain admiration.

He was the only person who matched up to Sirius. If Sirius was fireworks, Remus was a crackling hearth. They were both light and warmth to Harry. Maybe he couldn't tell anyone about these realisations, but they settled inside him; a bit surprising, a bit secret, but mostly just oddly comfortable.

The third revelation had come only the very next morning, with Harry getting out of bed and heading upstairs to find a book he had left in the highest study. He passed Sirius' bedroom door, which was wide open, and glanced unthinkingly inside. In the low light, he saw Sirius and Remus fast asleep in bed, the sheets bunched up around their intertwined legs. They were clearly both naked. Sirius' arm was draped over Remus' body, pulling him close. Remus had one hand on Sirius' hip, just above where the sheets were sitting. Their faces were close together on the pillows, breathing the same air.

Harry's stomach lurched and he froze in the doorway, staring at them for perhaps too long. Long enough that even in sleep, Sirius seemed to become aware of his presence and his dark eyelashes fluttered, his head turned slightly, and he blinked at Harry blearily. Then smiled and said good morning, voice slightly raspy with sleep. As though what Harry was looking at was nothing unusual. And that was when Harry realised that, until this moment, he had no idea what bedroom of the house Remus slept in.

The rest of the summer had been extremely pleasant. In the hot weather, he and Sirius had eviscerated the first and second storeys of the house, blasting out walls, re-plastering, re-decorating, stripping carpet and floorboards. It was nothing like the clean out of the previous year: it was a complete reconstruction, hard and sweaty work which left the place completely unrecognisable.

It was sometime during all this work that Harry had the last surprising realisation of the summer, and it was the one which probably jolted the most inside him. It happened while he and Sirius were working in the downstairs drawing room which had recently been made open plan. It was hot work on the hottest day of the summer and Harry had his wand out, sanding down the floorboards on his hands and knees. The sun was streaming in through the open window and Sirius, wearing only a vest, was wiping sweat from his brow as he worked. Harry didn't think twice when he paused to sit back on his knees and cool down by reaching over his head and tugging off his sticky t-shirt.

He might not have noticed it if he hadn't already been looking at Sirius in turn: the way his godfather's eyes flickered to Harry as he pulled off the shirt, the way his lips parted and his eyes dropped, only for a moment, before flicking up again and darting over Harry's shoulder. Harry turned to follow his gaze and saw, stomach jumping pleasantly, Remus standing in the doorway carrying three bottles of chilled soda, the glass dripping with condensation. Remus' eyes also, only for a second, flickered to Harry with a surprising intensity, before meeting Sirius' and—again, Harry might have missed it easily, but he didn't, not this time—he saw Remus give Sirius a tiny shake of the head, corners of his mouth twitching.

If it didn’t start there, really, Harry would not be able to tell where it started. That little shake of the head echoed again and again in little moments across the years. At first, Harry thought it was a ‘No.’ Quite a reasonable one, given everything. But slowly, as Harry saw it again and again, always passed between Sirius and Remus as an unspoken, understood gesture, Harry came to understand it for what it really meant. _Not yet._

*

That must be what it meant. Until right this moment, Harry has partially doubted it—but there's no doubting what is happening. Sure, he's spent the past however-many years teasing at the idea, playing with it, plucking on the line of tension between the three of them so as to send vibrations tremoring out.

But nothing has changed, except for the fact that Remus is pulling his fingers from his mouth and brushing his thumb over Harry's bottom lip, catching it, smiling when Harry flickers his eyes open, flicks his tongue out again to try to tease them back in again.

Remus reaches for a square of chocolate and brings it to Harry's lips. 'Would you like another?' he asks, voice low.

It's a pointless question, because Harry has already opened his mouth and the chocolate is on his tongue.

Sirius laughs, behind Remus. It's quieter than his usual barking laugh; softer, more hesitant. Harry locks eyes with him over Remus' shoulder. Sirius shifts closer on the couch so that his body is pressed to Remus' from behind, one hand coming out to rest on his thigh. He is glancing between both Harry and Remus quickly, but Remus isn't looking back at him, his own gaze fixed on Harry's face as he feeds him the chocolate, letting his fingers dance and tease at Harry's mouth.

Harry moans.

'Enjoying that?' Sirius asks, still trying to catch Remus' eye.

'He is, yes,' Remus answers. He pushes his thumb past Harry's lips, eyelids dropping when Harry sucks it deeper. 'Would you like to give him one?' he adds to Sirius.

Harry smiles around Remus' digit. His eyes are still locked on Sirius and he could swear he summons the square of chocolate into his hand, even though the block is only sitting a foot away on the little coffee table, because he does not see him move. But almost immediately he is holding up the piece, nudging Remus' hand out of the way, and pressing it—with shaking fingers—to Harry's lips.

Sirius' fingers taste different to Remus'. Sharper. Harry takes the chocolate from him and darts out his tongue to taste him in short, sharp licks which have Sirius' eyes going impossibly wide. There is a line of understanding which runs between Harry and his godfather, direct, where he can look into his eyes and see the question written so plainly on his face. He is still darting looks to Remus, even as Harry nips lightly at his fingertips.

Remus looks amused.

'Sit back, Pads,' he says.

With a pained look, Sirius does so. He withdraws his hand, clenching it in his lap, and gives Harry a look of helpless exasperation as he lets out a sigh and shifts backward on the couch.

Harry's stomach flips. If this is it—the game of the evening coming to an end, then it is hardly a surprise. 'Sirius,' he starts, ready to laugh it away with a joke.

But Remus cuts him off. His hands come out to tilt Harry's face up towards him, fingers grazing where his jaw meets his neck. He looks into Harry's eyes. 'Tell me if you want us to stop,' he mutters, before leaning in and bumping his lips to Harry's. He opens the kiss with his tongue, and then all Harry can taste is Remus and chocolate and the lingering flavour of Sirius' skin, and he groans and brings one hand up to pull Remus closer by the neck and reaches the other out to feel blindly for Sirius, pull him closer, pull him in.

*

It must be Remus who tips the scales, because he is the one who has stopped Sirius and Harry crashing blindly, dangerously into each other many, many times over the years.

It's not quite right to say that they were always rushing towards this, the three of them. It was more like static in the background of a radio—easily tuned out, especially when other things were playing. Sometimes it would fade almost to nothing, and sometimes there would be breaks between songs where it seemed almost overwhelmingly loud and it became impossible to imagine you could ever ignore it: and then the next song would play and it would be forgotten again in moments.

The songs, in this metaphor, were all the others that Harry brought home, and the ones he fell for. The one he was swept away by—a beautiful quidditch player from Toronto named Antione who was only meant to be in England for a month. He left Harry feeling like he had taken a bludger to the stomach: first when they met and it had been the strike of a match, and Harry had gone home to Sirius and Remus babbling about a whirlwind romance and how it wasn’t going to last, no, of course not, but how he was _perfect_ , and Harry would take a month with him over nothing at all. Then, second; when Antione had left after a lot longer than a month, and a little less than a year. There had been talk about Harry moving to Canada. There had been talk about Antione trying to move here and play for England. In the end, however, neither had happened and Harry was left gasping for breath with the pain of heartbreak.

There had been some time after that when the static between the three of them—Harry, Sirius, Remus—had _hurt_ with how loud it was. When the ache in Harry’s chest was impossible to drown out and they would try to comfort him and all Harry wanted was to climb into their skins until he felt better again. One nearly disastrous night had involved about a bottle too much wine, some crying and something blurry about apparating to Toronto because, ‘it’s, what, seven at night over there? That’s not too late, if I just _talk_ to him, it might be okay, it might be—’

It had been a bit more crying after that, and Sirius and Remus sitting either side of Harry on his bed, hugging him tight and rubbing slow circles on his back. And, when the tears had died down (at least, Harry hopes they had—it’s all pretty foggy and muddled in his memories), Harry had leant in close to Remus and he might not remember everything clearly from that night, but he definitely remembers that he was going to kiss him. The only reason he didn’t was that Remus pulled away, just smoothly enough that Harry’s face went to his shoulder instead, and Remus said in a firm voice that it was time for bed. At the time, Harry had felt bitter, and wished that he had moved to kiss Sirius instead—because Sirius would not have been able to turn away. Sirius always gives Harry what he wants.

In the morning, Harry was hungover, embarrassed, and glad that he had snogged a grand total of zero godfathers. Ron and Hermione nursed him through most of the rest of the heartbreak, and at home Harry, Remus and Sirius all took extra care for quite a long while to keep everything well within the appropriate boundaries.

Evidently, that has gone out of the window.

*

Okay fine, it went out the window a while ago. It has been longer since Antione left than the full term of their relationship, and at first Harry just went back to what he was doing before: bringing home a stream of one-night-stands and short, casual flings and winking at Sirius and Remus on the way to his bedroom. It’s been good, but it’s been trailing off for a while now—from twice a week to twice a month to once in a blue moon. Sirius asked at one point if Harry was okay, and Harry said, ‘Yeah, maybe I’m just growing out of it.’

That wasn’t quite true. Or maybe it was. But as much as it was about that, it was about the fact that after the scars on Harry’s heart had healed, he had thought about Antione, and thought about what he wanted, and looked at what Remus and Sirius have, and he had thought: _that’s what I want._

Sirius and Remus’ relationship isn’t always idyllic. It’s not married with kids and a family sized magic carpet or whatever it’s meant to be. It took Harry over a year of being exposed to it to even realise they were together simply because they are quiet about it, for no other reason than that is how they are. Sirius can be hell to be in love with (Harry knows this too): he takes things wrong sometimes, withdraws and goes ice cold and hides himself away for too long. Remus is steady and calm and thoughtful, but he has a tendency to blame himself, worry that he’s holding Sirius back from _something_ , and he breeds Boggarts in the attic which is just an issue, generally. They bicker often and they fight occasionally. Harry knows a bit too much about their sex life from years and years of cohabiting and also from Sirius complaining after a few drinks to know that Remus’ libido drops off almost completely on either side of the full moon and it drives Sirius mental.  

But they are perfect together, and the fact that they seem perfect whenever Harry looks at them—even when they’re arguing, even when they’re silent, even when they’re both suffering together in mutual longing for their best friend’s son—is what makes Harry know that it’s not something _like_ their relationship he wants. It’s just them.

*

And _they_ are perfect together. Not just Remus and Sirius, but the three of them. Some people find it weird. A few of the wizards that Harry has had on rotation for the past few years have asked him, pointedly, if he’s ever going to move out of Grimmauld Place and kick it on his own. The question has always baffled Harry. Why would he want to? It is always phrased like there is some sort of ‘ _oh, you’re twenty-four and still live with your parents?_ ’ buried underneath the words.

It is hard to explain to people who don’t quite understand them. ‘Yeah, Sirius is my godfather,’ Harry has tried. ‘But that’s not why we live together. I live with them because I want to. I want to be with the people I love, all the time. I don’t care if it is weird, and sorry, I don’t really care if you want to be able to come and stay the night without having to worry about bumping into Remus on the way to the shower after we’ve fucked.’

(Dominic, the boy Harry had been sleeping with, had interrupted him there. ‘And you don’t see why it’s a problem,’ he argued, ‘that he hovered in front of the door so that I couldn’t go into the bathroom, kept sipping at his stupid space smoothie bottle and politely asked me _how it was_ ? While I was covering myself with only those balled up, cum stained robes that _you_ wrecked?’

Harry had found this very, very funny, and Dominic had gotten dressed and left in a mild huff. But he came back a few weeks later, and a few weeks later after that.)

Sometimes, it’s also hard to explain to the people who _do_ understand them. Hermione has suggested, on the odd occasion, that Harry move out so that Remus and Sirius can have the house to themselves. She stopped, however, after Antione: when it became clear that Remus and Sirius were beginning to make moderately serious plans to move to Canada themselves, as soon as it looked like Harry might be doing so.

‘They’re just as bad as you,’ she said, unimpressed, while Harry gnawed at his nails and browsed Toronto wizarding real estate, looking for a place big enough to comfortably fit himself, his boyfriend, his godfather, and his godfather’s boyfriend.

Ron, also, has given Harry completely baffled looks on odd occasions when he’s come over and seen Sirius greet Harry with a light brush of lips, or Remus come up to stand behind him and start running his fingers through Harry’s hair as they chat. These are the things they lean into—Harry melting back into Remus’ body, closing his eyes, or smiling into the feeling of Sirius’ lips against his own, always chaste and brief. Harry can’t quite say when these things started: they have always been physically affectionate, and at some point it crossed over into something a little… unusual, maybe. But something that works for them.

*

Which is why this doesn’t feel like a departure. This is not a special evening, this is nothing out of order. This was a normal evening with wine and chocolate and the three of them on the couch, enjoying the warmth of the fire and one another’s company. Now, it is a slightly less normal evening with wine and chocolate mingling on their tongues as they kiss, and the three of them climbing into one another’s space, bodies tangling together.

*

It is a mess, but only in the most pleasurable sense of the word. Like pancakes drowned in too much syrup, or like the way their clothes fall together on the ground, discarded and crumpled and ignored. Somehow Sirius makes his way across Remus on the sofa—which is big, yeah, but probably not big enough for this—and puts himself in Harry’s lap. It is kind of laughable: Sirius is significantly taller than Harry, but he is very light and bony, so he props his arse down between Harry’s spread thighs, and stretches out his legs across Remus’ lap so that he’s lying across both of them, and it’s not uncomfortable.

And he seems thrilled to be there. He can grab Remus by the collar and pull him close into a kiss, or he can turn his head to press his lips to Harry’s: a familiar friendly gesture turned positively filthy by the way he licks into Harry’s mouth, moans, and squirms in place. Harry occupies himself with touching every part of Sirius’ bare skin he can, fingers brushing through the hair on his chest and stomach, dancing down to the front of his jeans, and then away again to make their way down Sirius’ arm to tangle their hands together. Remus’ mouth is following a similar path to Harry’s fingers. He kisses down Sirius’ shoulder, lazy and familiar, down his chest, down, down, down—until Harry is breaking the kiss with his godfather to look down and watch Remus’ hair fall in his eyes as he unbuckles Sirius’ jeans.

They must have done this a thousand times. From what Harry understands, it’s also not necessarily the first time they’ve done this with a Potter boy watching. But familiarity just keeps it playful and teasing. Harry reaches down to stroke Remus’ soft, greying curls and touch his face, and once Sirius’ trousers are caught around his knees, Remus seems perfectly happy to lie down on the sofa, kissing and licking alternately at Harry’s fingers and Sirius’ prick, slowly unbuttoning his shirt own shirt with one free hand. Remus swallows down Sirius’ cock, choking out a laugh when he pulls off and Sirius whines, and Harry closes his hand around his spit-slick prick instead, stroking slowly, curiously.

It’s a mess: they fumble as they touch each other, both slow and lazy with wine and rushed with unacted upon desire. And slow with the knowledge that they have all the time in the world. And rushed with the knowledge that this is the first of as many times as they want, and there is no need to drag it out.

They talk mainly in short, breathless, laughing fragments:

‘Come up here,’ and ‘ _mmphh_ —yes, Moony...’

‘Sirius, _move_ . Oh. _Oh,_ not like that— _ohhhhhh_ , oh, _ow!_ No, _move!_ Ow!’

‘Faster, shit, fuck—the floor, both of you, move to the—’

‘Yes, yes, _yes_ , perfect.’

‘God, yes, that’s it—’

Until they are tumbling on the floor and Harry is using wandless magic simply to levitate the coffee table out of the way so that they can share the plush rug next to the fire.

‘I had no idea you could do that,’ Remus says, impressed, his hand on Harry’s thigh, his mouth on Harry’s hipbone, and his voice sounding more like a proud teacher than it should in this moment. ‘Can you do other spells or—?’

Sirius slaps Remus’ arse lightly. ‘Time and place, love.’

‘What did I do?’ Harry asks in mild confusion, already distracted by the way the firelight flickers on both of the others’ bodies, and his mind races with what he wants to touch first. He blinks. ‘Oh, that. It’s nothing.’

Harry has been wondering how this would go for years, going so far as to have fumbling threesomes with a couple of his boyfriends just to make sure he was up for it. He expected many things, but he didn’t expect it to be this _easy._ But then, why shouldn’t it be? They have always been easy together, there is no reason that this should be different.

More than anything, Harry worried that he would feel like an intruder. Sirius and Remus have, after all, been sharing one another’s bed (with large gaps, admittedly) for approximately three decades now. But neither of them seems anything other than enthusiastic to welcome Harry in. They are unconsciously coordinated, able to read each other effortlessly from the slightest movement. When Sirius begins to get carried away with excitement, a gentle touch from Remus has him blinking, smiling sheepishly, and slowing down.

Harry stops keeping track of who he is touching, who he is kissing—they guide each other, melt together so that it stops mattering pretty quick. He takes inventory sometimes, his hand wrapped around Sirius’ cock, his fingers tangled in Remus’ hair as he sucks at his prick. Or he is sitting across Remus’ lap, rolling their bodies together, cocks trapped between their stomachs, Sirius pressed to his body from behind, kissing up and down his neck. At one point it’s Harry popping the last piece of chocolate in Sirius’ belly button and moving to lick it out until Remus bumps him out of the way with his nose and sucks the chocolate from Sirius’ skin—who is writhing and laughing with ticklishness—until everything is a sweet, sticky mess.

And then: _everything_ is a sweet, sticky mess. Harry brings Sirius off with his mouth and Remus off with his hand, splitting his attention slightly clumsily both ways until he has the taste of each of them on his tongue, and more than a little of each of them stuck in his hair. Then they both push him down onto his back on the plush rug and Harry gasps into their mouths as they stroke him together, hands taking turns to explore, dip between his legs, dance over his chest, stroke through his hair. Harry comes with a long moan against Remus’ lips, Sirius sucking a mark onto his neck.

The hours of the night seem to slip away, slowly, in deep, lazy kisses as they stay there, boneless together on the floor, warmed from the flickering embers of the fire as it dies out. ‘We should go to bed,’ Remus murmurs at some point, tracing shapes on Harry’s skin with idle fingers.  

But the words don’t hold much commitment, and Remus accepts Sirius’ kisses across Harry’s body until he just falls asleep right there, curled up to Harry’s side. Sirius charms a blanket down from the couch and tucks it over him, before kissing Harry again, soft and slow, pulling him close until Harry feels interest twitching against him.

This time they roll against one another, gasping into skin, trying to stay quiet so as not to disturb Remus, until they come again, messy and shaking from being oversensitized. There is no rush.

‘We _should_ get to bed,’ Harry whispers afterwards. It is the early hours of the morning, or the latest hours of the night, or some time in the middle.

Sirius just snorts, flinging his long arm over Harry’s waist so that he can touch Remus and pull them both close. ‘You try moving him,’ he mutters.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter if the first time ends with them all passed out on the floor of the living room, cuddled close and sticky and covered with only a couple of old blankets that live on the sofa. They’ve been winding towards this for long enough that there is no rush. There’s plenty of time to find a proper bed, there’s plenty of time to do it faster, slower, messier, cleaner, and every other type of way.

_This is it,_ Harry thinks as he drifts off to sleep. _Finally._


End file.
